


doing more harm here than slander and lies

by Muppet47



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muppet47/pseuds/Muppet47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Her skirts… aren’t that short…” Oliver trails off as Isobel stalks away, leaving him stuttering to no one, which is probably for the best. He needs a second alone to pull himself together because what. the. fuck.</p><p>Post-ep for 2x06, Keep Your Enemies Closer</p>
            </blockquote>





	doing more harm here than slander and lies

**Author's Note:**

> title from the poem "Can't", by Edgar Allen Guest

 

“Her skirts… aren’t that short…” Oliver trails off as Isobel stalks away, leaving him stuttering to no one, which is probably for the best. He needs a second alone to pull himself together because what. the. fuck.

 

 He’s having a little trouble sucking in air, since his lungs seized up the moment Isobel accused him of jaunting up to Russia - _Russia_ for fuck’s sake - for some sort of romantic tryst. With Felicity.

 

 Felicity. Who is his _friend,_ not his…his…whatever, the whole thing is preposterous, and not only because if he was going to illicitly jaunt off with Felicity it wouldn’t be to Russia. Obviously they would go somewhere warm, with a beach, and a waterfront cabana, and holy _shit_ , what the fuck is he doing? The idea of an affair with Felicity was suggested to him literally thirty second ago and he’s already imagining her in a bikini.

 

 Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here.

 

“What was that about?”

 

 And here’s Felicity. Oliver internally jumps about a foot and quells the urge to step away from her and her totally professional skirt. He babbles something to Digg about their plans while trying and failing not to look at her. He’s pretty sure the back of his neck is sweating.

 

 (Oliver wonders a little wildly what exactly Isobel imagines Digg’s role is in this secret lovers scenario she’s imagining, but quickly shuts down that train of thought. He can only handle feeling awkward about one team member at a time.)

 

 Felicity says something about his mafia friends, and Oliver somewhat desperately fastens his eyes on her face - instead of her legs - and that stupid, adorable hat that’s covering her bright, bright hair. Hair that’s flowing over her shoulders in light, sunshiny waves. Was she wearing it like that on the plane? Because it’s kind of beautiful, and he has to blink a few times to rid himself of the sudden thought of all that blond hair spilling across his pillow, an image that - if Isobel is to be believed - everyone else already thinks is a reality and _Christ_ this is _Felicity._

 “You’re taking a cab to the hotel,” he barks at her, because Oliver absolutely cannot be in a car or a bar or maybe all of Russia with Felicity right now, not until he can shake the inexplicable picture in his mind of her pale, bare skin spread out against his dark satin sheets. A drop of sweat starts sliding down his spine.

 

 Oliver can honestly say that he’s never consciously fantasized about Felicity before (okay, once, but that gray dress really emphasized her…assets. He would’ve been blind not to notice.), but apparently his subconscious has been working overtime on that, just waiting for the right moment to hit him with every possible Felicity-related erotic thought at once, and no, _no_ he can’t do this.

 

 “You’re leaving me with her?” Felicity has on her _don’t-you-even-try-it_ face, which Oliver knows from experience will be followed shortly by her _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ face, which is good, anger is good, she can be angry at the hotel far away from him, because he has work to do that involves drinking and thinking about anything but her naked body stretched out beneath him and _damn it_ how far away is the bar?

 

 Two drinks and a strategy session with Digg later, and the visions of Felicity aren’t _gone_ , but at least they’re muted; indistinct and hazy and regulated to the back corner of his mind where he can deal with them later. Sometime when they aren’t in a foreign country with the lives of his entire team on the line.

 

 When Felicity isn’t sleeping mere feet away in the room next to his.

 

 Oliver throws back the last of his drink. He can’t think about it now.

 

 He just can’t.

 

* * *

 

 

“Does everyone really think Felicity and I are…” Oliver tries to keep his tone light. He just needs information is all, needs to know if some sort of damage control is required. Maybe they should avoid each other in public and pretend that they only ever interact in a strictly professional manner. They should probably stop having lunch together. The thought makes him feel a little empty inside.

 

“Only everyone at Queen Consolidated.” Isobel raises her eyebrows, somehow conveying with that one gesture that she would be more than willing to step into Felicity’s (imagined!) role tonight, and part of Oliver is shocked while the rest of him is completely unsurprised. This he understands.

 

(Later he tells himself that sleeping with Isobel was strictly physical. She was there, she was beautiful, she was willing. The fact that she doesn’t really like him and he definitely doesn’t like her didn’t factor into it. He’d be lying if doesn’t admit to himself that it’s a balm to his ego that even while Isobel basically thinks he’s an idiot, she wasn’t immune to his sensual charms. After all, sexual conquests - not loving, romantic relationships - are Oliver Queen’s specialty, what he’s _really_ good at.)

 

“She’s just a friend, “ he says with a laugh, this weird, stilted half-chuckle that gets lost in his throat and doesn’t convince him.

 

Or Isobel, apparently. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who has female friends,” she says, tilting her head and slowly sliding one leg over the other.

 

 _Felicity’s different_ , Oliver almost says, _special._ Except calling her special (and loyal, and kind, and funny, and brilliant) probably isn’t the best way to convince Isobel that he and Felicity aren’t getting it on on his desk during their lunch break.

 

(Last week during lunch she’d leaned over his desk to grab a napkin, accidentally giving him a full view down the front of her dress. He’d quickly averted his eyes, but he’d sucked in breath filled with the smell of her, and he’d tensed all over as a split second wash of heat rushed over him. He’d shoved it away, ignored it, but now Oliver wonders if that scent would seep into his sheets, if his bed would smell like her all the time; a mix of her shampoo and perfume, and something soft and light underneath that was just Felicity and _holy fuck_ , he cannot do this.)

 

Oliver very deliberately throws back the rest of his drink before smiling his best Oliver Queen playboy smile. The smile that belongs to the man who will happily sleep with a woman he barely knows and can’t stand.

 

(Felicity doesn’t know this man.)

 

Five years in purgatory really hones the ability to compartmentalize. Oliver blanks his mind to everything but straight physical sensation.

 

It works. He doesn’t think of Felicity once.

 

He can’t.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sixty-four million women over the age of consent in Russia and you have to sleep with her.”

 

“So we’re not doing the….what happens in Russia stays in Russia?” Oliver’s trying to ignore the lead weight that settled in his stomach the moment he opened his hotel room door to find Felicity. It’s equal parts guilt and panic, and he really can’t deal with it right now, not while they’re trying to keep Diggle from dying and/or getting incarcerated for life. Or maybe ever.

 

“We’re still _in_ Russia.”

 

And honestly, Felicity sounds pissed off more than anything else. Pissed and disgusted, and it’s the disgust sends a hot wave of shame crawling up his throat and the back of his neck, but it’s still better than the way she looked at him this morning. Like she didn’t even know him.

 

(Oliver didn’t realize until that precise moment how much he relies on that, the idea that Felicity knows the real him. How much he needs it.)

 

Ever since, Oliver’s been uncomfortably replaying the moment Isobel stepped out of his hotel room and slithered past Felicity. Felicity was stunned, her eyes flying to his and then immediately dropping, like she couldn’t even look at him. She’d plastered on a fake, sickly smile before turning away and getting out of there as fast as she could.

 

The thought of that smile twists the lead in his gut. Oliver’s never gotten Felicity’s fake smile before. He hates it.

 

Oliver wishes she was beside him in the backseat so he could see her expression, but she’d very deliberately seated herself in the front when they all got in the car, and now is resolutely facing forward. He just wants to try to explain, to give a good reason for sleeping with Isobel, something like _keep your enemies close_ or _anything for the mission._

Or maybe- if he really wants to blow this to all hell - _I had to make her believe I wasn’t sleeping with you_ , which, as stupid and self-destructive as it would be to actually verbalize that out loud, it’s still only the second worst thing he could say, the winner being _I had to sleep with her so I’d stop imagining sleeping with you_ , but that’s so painfully awful (painfully true) that Oliver can’t even think it to himself.

 

Luckily, their contact jumps into the driver’s seat, forcing Oliver to pay attention to the mission and not how badly he may have screwed up his personal life. Again. Because he can’t think of anything to say that will get that awful look off Felicity’s face and that tone out of her voice.

 

He’ll just have to fix this later, think of of something that will ease Felicity’s anger so she will look at him again, smile her real smile.

 

(What if he can’t?)

 

* * *

 

 

“It didn’t mean anything,” he hears himself say, and Oliver cringes at the tired line. The cliche.

 

Felicity drops her eyes to her desk, trying to hide her disappointment in him, and his gut clenches with a half-forgotten panic, a feeling from a lifetime ago. For a second he flashes years back, to his pre-island self standing guiltily in front of a teary Laurel, trying to explain yet another drunken hookup _she didn’t mean anything, it just happened_ and the self-disgust hits him so hard he can taste bile in the back of his throat.

 

He hasn’t changed at all. Not really.

 

“Hey,” he tries, and at least now Felicity’s looking at him, but God, her _face_. His stomach drops again as an entirely new feeling washes over him. Even with all the times he’s spectacularly fucked up with Laurel, Oliver still can’t remember ever having this particular sense of free fall, like he has somehow ruined something precious and vital without even realizing he was doing it. Without even knowing it was his to ruin.

 

Oliver forces a steady breath and focuses on Felicity’s face, willing her not to break eye contact. “Because of the life that I lead, I just think it’s better that I’m not with someone I could really care about.” And what is he even talking about? Even to his own ears he sounds like he’s making excuses; vague and pathetic and like the worst sort of coward, but it’s not like it’s a lie.

 

Felicity rises to her feet, frowning, troubled and sad, and Oliver’s heart is pounding so hard it’s making him feel a little nauseated. He closes his eyes and holds himself perfectly still, so attuned to her that the hair rises on the back of his neck as she steps past. He’s carefully counting each breath, the method he was taught to regulate his heartbeat in moments of stress, and he counts three and a half before Felicity slowly turns back to him.

 

Oliver counts one breath before she speaks, but it’s like it’s fucking forever while he waits. Dies a little while he waits for her to finally come to her senses and tell him she can’t work for him anymore. To say she was mistaken, that someone who is as shallow and emotionally stunted as Oliver obviously is can’t be any sort of hero.

 

“I just think you deserve better than her.”

 

What? No.

 

He doesn’t. Deserve better.

 

(Doesn’t deserve Felicity.)

 

Felicity is meeting his eyes now, hesitant and nervous but so sincere. So sure she speaks the truth.

 

(The real truth is this. He destroys everyone he loves.)

 

He cannot love her.

 

He can’t.


End file.
